The First and Last Time
by lastincurableromantic
Summary: River Song senses her time with the Doctor is growing short on a visit to Paris. Short, sad, angsty one-shot. Rated M for mature, not very explicit content. 11/River, hints of Doctor/Rose


**a/n: This is a very short, pretty sad one-shot I wrote over the weekend, and it is not in my typical style or with my typical characters. It is rated M for mature, fairly non-explicit content. Thanks so much to bittie752 for reading it over.  
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**The First and Last Time**

River knew her relationship with the Doctor was coming to an end the first time they made love.

Well, since they were living their lives backwards, it was only the first time for him.

Things had been strained between them. Ever since he had lost her parents, Amy and Rory Williams, to the Weeping Angels in Manhattan, things had begun to change. He was desperately, desperately lonely with the loss of her parents, of her mother in particular, so much so that she was almost jealous, but he was trying not to show it. She knew him so well, though. He was so lonely he even asked her to travel with him. As much as she wanted to, she refused. She didn't want him getting too attached to her. It would make it just that much harder on him when he ultimately lost her, as he had lost everyone. Plus, if she only visited him, instead of actually traveling with him, she could spread out her shorter lifespan over a longer period of his. She had already been able to extend him knowing her over hundreds of years of his life and she had every intention of continuing that way.

Instead, she suggested he get a new companion and told him her news. She had recently been made a professor. She was now Professor River Song. Instead of being surprised or congratulatory, an odd look of perhaps sadness briefly crossed his face.

He eventually had gotten a new companion, a very lovely, very _young_ woman who traveled with him, and River continued to see him out of order. Occasionally she felt he was glad to see her, but occasionally she felt that it made him sad to see her, and she assumed it was because he was reminded of his loss of her mother.

Although their lives were mostly lived backwards, for a while in their relationship their lives had begun bouncing around, back and forth, in order and out of order, in a fashion that was very timey wimey as he had put it. She lived with a fear, however, of the time when he would begin to know her less and less, until that time ultimately when she would meet him and he wouldn't know her.

She had always known that time would come, but she hadn't thought about it in regards to this visit.

They had been sort of married for years when things started going backwards for her. First, he didn't realize they were married. Then he didn't know who her parents were. Oh, he knew Amy and Rory Williams, whom he insisted on calling Amy and Rory Pond, but he didn't know she was Melody Pond. Then he didn't even know Amy had had a child, or was even pregnant.

But River still loved him and he still seemed to care for her, so they continued on.

It wasn't their first date, not for either of them. She had sent him a message on his psychic paper, just _Hello Sweetie_ with a time, date and coordinates. The coordinates were for Paris, the city not the planet, and a small café near the Eiffel Tower, in the mid twenty first century. It was early summer, and the city was filled with people. As she walked to the café where he was waiting for her, she could smell the intoxicating odors of flowers, wine, and freshly baked bread.

When she spotted him, she stopped for a second to adjust the fit of her dress and fluff her hair. He was sitting at a small table facing away from her as she approached. Despite the crowds, she would have known him anywhere, the unmistakable shape of his shoulders in his tweed jacket, the floppy hair, _thankfully with no fez or cowboy hat_, his profile with his strong chin as he turned and glanced in her direction.

When he saw her, he jumped up awkwardly, as if he wasn't quite used to his body, knocking over his chair and almost knocking over the table. So early days then, she realized.

He quickly righted his chair and turned to her.

"River," he said nervously.

"Hello, Sweetie," she grinned. He looked almost surprised when she kissed him on the cheek. She raised her eyebrows. Of course, he was often uncomfortable with public displays of affection. But still, possibly very early days.

No matter.

He picked up a bunch of flowers wrapped in white paper that were lying on the table. "These are for you," he said, thrusting them at her. It wasn't the first time she had received flowers from him. She hoped it wasn't the first time he was giving them to her.

"Thank you," she said coyly, a flirtatious raise of one eyebrow and a tiny smirk on her lips. "They're lovely."

And they were. Carnations and baby's breath. Sometimes it was lilies, sometimes irises, often painted daisies, occasionally a huge bouquet of a mix of beautiful, fragrant flowers without names from far flung planets. But never roses, and occasionally she wondered why. She had never asked. It felt like cheating, somehow. Spoilers.

They ordered bread, cheese and wine. Thankfully, neither fish fingers nor custard were on the menu. They ate slowly, savoring both the food and the fine weather. They watched the people pass, her making up amusing stories about them to make him laugh. Occasionally, he would adjust his maroon bowtie, a nervous tic he had had the entire time she had known him, so she thought nothing of it. It meant nothing, indicated nothing, she told herself. After dinner, they walked all over the city, her carrying the flowers he had given her in one hand, her other hand resting on his arm. He knew Paris well and delighted in pointing out the sights and relaying historical information about them. She told him that she knew all about Paris, had been there many times, and he seemed surprised. Quickly, to cover up an uncomfortable pause, she reminded him she was an archaeologist after all, and when he laughed at her profession, she joined in, a long-standing joke between them.

They made their way eventually to the Seine. The night was lovely, balmy with a clear sky in which the stars twinkled. She took his hand and he started. Hand holding wasn't something they usually did; it was almost as if their hands didn't fit quite right together, but she insisted this time by refusing to let go of him. For a moment, she thought he was going to pull his hand away, but then he seemed to relent and allowed her hand to remain in his.

She had specifically picked this night, this year and this century. Paris was quiet for a change. No riots or uprisings this decade, and the city was neither too hot nor too cold, not too dry or too damp. It was a weeknight as well, so the crowds were smaller than the weekend. They found a bench to sit on, a distance from the nearest street lamp, and they watched the brightly lit boats travel up and down the river.

Eventually it was getting late, even for Paris, and he suggested that she return to the TARDIS with him. She refused. She was afraid of finding out exactly where he was in his timeline, and just stepping foot in the door would tell her more than she wanted to know. Instead she said, "Spoilers," and invited him back to her hotel.

The room she had taken for the night was in the type of tiny, boutique hotel that had become popular in recent years in the city, centrally located and not far from the Seine. It was beautiful, full of antiques, fluffy pillows and luxurious bedding. They had stayed there before, in three years' time, during that time of their lives when they seemed to be somewhat in sync in their timelines. She was fairly certain he wouldn't remember the visit, and he didn't.

She had always intended on seducing her husband that night when she contacted him, whether or not he knew he was her husband. And sometimes she wondered, was he her husband, if he had not yet married her?

No matter.

Leading him into the room and setting the flowers down on the dresser, she grabbed him and kissed him, trying not to think about his flailing hands and how he didn't seem to know how to respond to her. Eventually, he kissed her back, wrapping his arms around her. She pulled away from him to push off his tweed jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Then she untied his bowtie, with a seductive promise that someday he'd find another good use for it.

Unzipping her dress, she let it slide down her body and stepped out of it.

"River, I don't…" he started, but she didn't let him finish, putting a finger to his lips.

"Spoilers," she said, toeing off her high heeled shoes.

She pushed off his braces and undid his shirt, and then stepped back, removing her bra and dropping her knickers on the floor. He stared at her wide-eyed.

"See something you like, Sweetie?" she purred, and tried not to notice how his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in response.

His mouth opened and closed, but he seemed unable to form any words.

"I believe you have me at a disadvantage," she said with a smirk. "What are you going to do about it?"

When he didn't seem as if he was going to move, she stepped toward him. First pulling off his shirt, she turned him around, pushed him onto the bed, and climbed on his lap.

"River…" he started again, and this time she silenced him with her mouth, kissing any protests away. After a moment he responded by kissing her back, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

Eventually she climbed off the bed and, untying his boots, pulled them off one at a time and then his trousers and pants in one move.

"River, stop," he ordered. When she looked up at him, he continued, "What are we to each other? And don't say 'spoilers'."

So very, _very_ early days. She sighed.

"Does it matter?" she asked in all seriousness. "There is you and there is me and there is this moment and sometimes that's enough."

He looked at her, considering, and then sighed.

She joined him on the bed, kissing her way up his body. And he responded, as she knew he would respond, as he had always responded. She knew what he liked and what he didn't. Where to be gentle and where to be firm. Where to nip and how best to sooth it away. And he touched, first gently, tentatively, and then firmly, with purpose, until she was left breathless.

Pushing him backwards, she climbed on top of him again, this time to lower herself onto him. She took charge, as usual, moving slowly at first, and then quickening the speed. When he grabbed her, rolling her underneath him without withdrawing, she was surprised almost to the point of being shocked. She didn't think that after all these years, for her, that he could surprise her anymore, and particularly not in bed, yet he had.

Taking control, he set a punishing speed, almost too rough for her, but she reveled in it, in his power and passion. She tried not to notice his half-closed eyes, unfocused, or perhaps inwardly focused. She clutched at him desperately, kissing and nipping and urging him on, and he moved faster, harder. As they quickly neared completion, he closed his eyes tightly, in the effort she thought, and she moaned loudly.

"Yes!" she cried out. "Oh, God, Doctor!"

And as she convulsed around him he called out a name.

But not hers.

And as he climaxed, another woman's name still on his lips, she finally realized why he never gave her roses.

He rolled off of her, panting despite his respiratory bypass, opened his eyes and smiled at her. And she smiled back, because she was sure he didn't know he had done it, because, regardless, she loved him, and because she was just that good an actress.

Pulling her to him, he whispered her name, River, and not the name he had called out in passion. As was usual for both of them, there were no promises made, no whispered words of love. Instead, he held her and kissed the top of her head. And, looking up at him and brushing his fringe out of his eyes, she kissed him and then tried to relax in his arms.

And flatly refused to think of the implications of him calling for someone else in bed.

No matter.

Later still, they dressed and she walked him back to the TARDIS, her hand on his arm and not hand in hand. He had parked the TARDIS in a deserted alley near the café where they had eaten earlier.

"You sure I can't convince you to come in?" he asked cajolingly with a jerk of his head at the TARDIS door.

"No, I'm late as it is," she lied. She was very good at lying. "I need to get back."

"But back where?" he asked, and she smiled enigmatically.

"Spoilers," she replied.

"Well, if you're sure…" he said.

"I'm sure," she said. She gave him a quick kiss on the mouth, turned and walked quickly out of the alley, stopping just as she turned the corner.

And when she heard the door to the TARDIS close, she walked around the corner and back into the alley. And watched as the TARDIS disappeared, making its familiar wheezing and groaning.

And River Song wept as she had a realization. This had been the first and last time. The first and last time they would walk along the Seine holding hands. The first and last time they would visit Paris. The first and last time they would make love. The first time for him. And the last time for her.


End file.
